Henrietta Who? Read Free Page B

Hepple paused significantly. “I shouldn’t have said myself it was the sort of place worth a burglary.”
    â€œReally?” Sloan always listened to opinions of this sort.
    â€œIt’s just one of Mr. Hibbs’s old cottages. Mind you, they keep it very nice. Always have done.”
    â€œWho do?”
    â€œMrs. Jenkins and Henrietta—that’s the daughter. Of course, coming on top of the accident like this I thought I’d better report it special.”
    â€œQuite right, Constable.”
    â€œSeems a funny thing to happen.”
    â€œIt is,” said Sloan briefly. “How far have they got with the accident?”
    â€œUsual procedure with a fatal, sir. Traffic Division have asked all their cars to keep a lookout for a damaged vehicle, and all garages to report anything coming in for accident repair. I’ve got a decent cast of a nearside front tire …”
    â€œSize?”
    â€œ590 x 14.”
    â€œBig,” said Sloan, just as Bill Thorpe had done.
    â€œYes, sir. They’re asking for witnesses but they can’t be sure of their timing until after the post mortem. The local doctor put the time of death between six and nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, but I understand the pathologist is doing a post mortem this morning.”
    â€œWe’ll know a bit more after that,” agreed Sloan.
    Wherein he was speaking more truthfully than he realized.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Hepple. “They’ll be able to fix an inquest date after that. I’ve warned the girl about it. But as to this other matter, sir …”
    â€œThe bureau?”
    â€œIt doesn’t make sense to me. That house was all locked up when I went ’round it at twelve yesterday. I could swear no one broke in before then.”
    Sloan twiddled a pencil. “She could have gone out on Tuesday and forgotten to shut the door properly.”
    â€œYe-es,” said Hepple uneasily, “but I don’t think so. Careful sort of woman, I’d have said. Very.”
    â€œWhen did she go out on Tuesday? Do we know that? And where had she been?”
    â€œWe don’t know where she’d been, sir. No one seems to know that. Her daughter certainly doesn’t. As to when, she caught the first bus into Berebury and came back on the last.”
    â€œNot much help. She could have gone anywhere.”
    â€œYes, sir. And it meant the house was empty all day.”
    â€œAnd all night.”
    â€œAll night?”
    â€œShe was lying in the road all night.”
    â€œSo she was,” said Hepple. “I was forgetting. In fact, you could say the house was empty from first thing Tuesday morning until they brought the daughter from Berebury on Wednesday evening.”
    â€œI wonder what was in the bureau?”
    â€œI couldn’t say, sir. She didn’t keep money in there, nor jewelry. Nothing like that. Just papers, her daughter said.”
    Detective Constable Crosby was young and brash and consciously represented the new element in the police force. The younger generation. He didn’t usually volunteer to do anything. Which was why when Detective-Inspector Sloan heard him offering to take a set of papers back to Traffic Division he sat up and took notice.
    â€œNothing to do with us, sir,” the constable said virtuously. “Road Traffic Accident. Come to the C.I.D. by mistake, I reckon.”
    â€œThen,” said Sloan pleasantly, “you can reckon again.”
    Crosby stared at the report. “Woman, name of Grace Jenkins, run down by a car on a bad bend far end of Larking village.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œBut Larking’s miles away.”
    â€œIn the country,” agreed Sloan. “Let’s hope the natives are friendly.”
    Sarcasm was wasted on Crosby. He continued reading aloud. “Found by H. Ford, postman, believed to have been dead between ten and twelve hours, injuries consistent with